


a daring victory

by HalfFizzbin



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (sort of), First Time, Future Fic, Gay Porn Hard, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oblivious Pining, trophy desecration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 15:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4024243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfFizzbin/pseuds/HalfFizzbin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I dare you,” says Jonny.</p><p>“Well.” Patrick drains the rest of his beer in a showily-sloppy gulp. “You first.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	a daring victory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyblahblah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/gifts).



> LOL OKAY. Cross-posting this from [tumblr](http://halffizzbin.tumblr.com/post/120058643866/a-daring-victory-kaner-tazer-nsfw), even though I'm still caught somewhere between pride and shame :D
> 
> Based on [this conversation](http://halffizzbin.tumblr.com/post/119906542511/me-i-wonder-how-often-and-how-well-the-stanley) about stuff hockey bros have probably done to the Stanley Cup. POSSIBLE **dubcon for mutual drunkenness** , but they're really only tipsy at best.

“I dare you,” says Jonny.

“Well.” Patrick drains the rest of his beer in a showily-sloppy gulp. “You first.”

Jonny narrows his eyes, which are trained on Patrick with a lot more focus than anyone who just did a double tequila shot should be capable of. “It's your cup, today.  _You_  first.”

“It’s not my cup, it’s  _our_  cup,” Patrick protests, and then they both lose several rapt, gooey moments of happiness staring at the beautiful silver monstrosity currently taking up the whole coffee table. “Jonny. Our cup.”

“Third time’s the charm, eh?” Jonny gives his shoulder a friendly slap, turning it into a kind of caress halfway through. His thumb sweeps up the back of Patrick’s neck, pressing in like a tiny massage, and Patrick melts into it with a sigh. “ _Crisse_ , it’s great, playing with you.”

“Yeah, you’re all right,” Patrick allows, snickering when Jonny grabs a handful of curls at the back of his head and pulls sharply. “Hey, asshole, foul!”

“Get a haircut.”

“You first.”

Jonny scrunches his face up. “I already—”

“No, I mean.” Patrick waves at the cup, waggling his eyebrows. “The thing. The dare. Bet you won’t.”

“I don’t…” Jonny looks uncertain, which is not an expression Patrick is used to seeing on his face. “I was kidding, though. It's disrespectful, isn’t it?”

“Jonny. Just yesterday you wanted us to eat hot wings out of it.”

“We washed it out!”

“So we’ll wash it out after this, too!” Patrick leans forward, flicking Jonny’s forehead gently. “Wuss.”

“Oh come on,” Jonny groans. “Fine.” He stands, making to lift the cup.

“Whoa whoa, where’re you going?”

“I’m taking it… you said me first, so I’m taking it to your room, so I can—”

“Oh no, hotshot, nice try.” Patrick scrambles to his feet to grab the cup and set it down on the floor, right between them. “How do I know you’ll really do it, huh? Not a chance.”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Pat, come on. You want me to jack off in the Stanley Cup, and you want me to do it in front of you?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds really weird,” Patrick says, frowning.

“Well, yes.”

“Okay, so—”

“No, I mean.” Jonny swallows, throat clicking audibly. “Yes, I’ll. Do it.”

“Good,” Patrick says, shifting from foot-to-foot, suddenly nervous.

“I’ll do it if you do it.”

“Good.” Patrick shuffles up to his side of the cup and tugs his sweatpants down his hips a little, stalling. “Take off your shirt.”

“Wha… why?”

 _So I can see_ , Patrick almost says, and nearly bites through his tongue in surprise. “Because… to be clean.”

“We’re about to jizz in a beloved symbol of athletic excellence, Kaner,” Jonny reminds him with a vicious eyeroll. He is, however, taking off his shirt anyway. “You too.”

“Yup,” Pat says, agreeably tugging it off one-handed. “So, what’s the play here, do we like, close our eyes while we try to get hard, or… oh.”

“Uhm,” Jonny says, voice a little croaky. He’s drawing his cock out over the top of his boxer-briefs, and it’s flushed dark and almost all the way hard already, the head wet and shiny as it pokes out from the foreskin. “Well.”

“Huh.” Patrick glances down, pulling himself out over the waistband of his sweats. He’s even harder than Jonny is. “ _Huh_.”

“So.” Jonny, brave and stalwart leader that he is, starts stroking first, a lot more slowly and… sensually than Patrick would have expected, given the circumstances. “You come here often?”

Humiliatingly, Patrick’s dick twitches a little bit. “God,” he sighs, squeezing his fist around the head and giving it a nice, slow stroke down to the base, matching Jonny’s pace automatically. “You’re literally the worst, bro. How do you,  _hm_ , tell me you don’t use lines like that to score, you huge fucking dork.”

Jonny smiles, sudden and sharp. “I don’t need lines, my fucking team won the fucking Stanley Cup,  _fuck_.”

“Fuck,” Pat agrees, faintly. He bites his lip hard, speeding up his strokes when Jonny does. It’s dry, and a little uncomfortable, but it doesn’t even matter; he’s so hard, he’s leaking everywhere, how is he already so— “What the hell.”

“What?” Jonny’s breathing faster, the top of his chest flushed blotchy red, his nipples hardening up like they want to be touched. Patrick licks his lips. He’s so glad he made Jonny take his shirt off for this.

“Jonny, you…” Patrick clears his throat, can’t seem to get the hoarseness out of his voice. He touches his own neck, pressing in like that’s going to help him somehow, and Jonny exhales a loud, shaky breath. “You okay?”

“This is so stupid,” Jonny says, quiet, almost under his breath. “You’re so stupid.”

“You're  _amazing_ ,” Patrick says, spitting it back like it’s an insult. “You were so good, that last series… just fucking  _filthy_  out there. That one-timer, in the last game, got us to overtime?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jonny’s eyes are sliding shut, and Patrick watches as his free hand drags over his skin, rubs down his abs, grips his balls in long, capable fingers. Jonny hisses, and Patrick’s knees threaten to fail him.

“Jonny, I thought about sucking you off right there on the bench, after.” He takes a deep breath, starts rubbing under the head of his cock to ramp himself up higher. He can’t really hold back the noise anymore, but who cares. "I wanted to do it. I  _want_  to.“

Patrick sees Jonny’s mouth drop open, sees him let go of his balls so he can dig his fingers into one of his huge, gorgeous thighs. Jonny’s letting out rhythmic, continuous whimpers that Patrick’s totally going to make fun of him for, later. His legs are shaking.

So are Patrick’s.

“Always gotta be first, huh?” Pat hears his own voice slide into its sex-register, low and syrupy, without his conscious permission. “ _Mph_ , always gotta win, Tazer?”

“You’re the one who said I should go first, you huge fucking asshole,” Jonny groans, and then comes all down the inside edge of the cup with a fervent string of what are probably French swear words. “What,” he says a short moment later, eyes fluttering open. “S'matter, Peeks, you need permission?”

“Maybe,” Patrick grunts out, equal parts bitchy and brazenly hopeful.

“Get off, then.” Jonny leans forward, braces his arms on the edges of the cup, flexing. "Do it, go on, let me see—”

“Jon- _ny_ ,” Patrick croaks out, frankly alarmed at the force of his orgasm. He can’t even keep his eyes open to aim, just hopes that he’s getting it all at least near the inside of the bowl’s edge. He’s still gasping a little bit, trying to get the rhythm of his breath back, when he feels warm hands cupping his elbows. “Wha…”

“Y'were… falling forward, a little.” Jonny, thank god, still sounds almost as unsteady as Patrick feels. “I thought you were going to give yourself a concussion in your own living room.”

“Was not.” Patrick sticks out his tongue. He feels fantastic.

“Not while I’m here, no,” Jonny agrees, and then leans in the rest of the way and…  _kisses_  him, right on his left dimple. “Hey, Pat.”

“Hey,” Patrick answers, voice embarrassingly high.

Jonny’s eyes shift from pleasure-hazy to sharklike focus almost instantly, the  _bastard_. "Want me to dare you to do something else?“

Patrick shivers.

 


End file.
